The mahogany desk in my gallery feels sturdier now, or maybe it’s just the relief of not being bolted to a floor in Rikers. I adjust my cufflinks, ensuring the silk of my Tom Ford suit sits perfectly. To the world, I am Claude Becker: the resurrected king of the Upper East Side. To you, I am a debt that can never be fully repaid.

I watch you across the room, leaning over a 17th-century Dutch landscape. Your movements are clinical, almost holy. You aren't just cleaning it; you’re deciding which "original" details you’ll improve upon. It’s a terrifying talent, the way you blur the line between truth and artifice. It’s why the FBI’s interest in me evaporated, replaced by a sudden, airtight trail of breadcrumbs leading straight to Daphne Kluger. It’s why I love you. It’s also why I’m looking for a way to eventually destroy you.

"The lighting in the courtroom was atrocious," I say, my voice smooth, hiding the jagged edges of the resentment I feel for needing you. "But the way you pivoted the evidence toward Daphne... it was a masterstroke. The poor girl was so desperate for Debbie’s approval she’d rather take the fall for a heist she barely understood than betray the women who finally gave her a seat at the table. She practically walked into the handcuffs herself."

I walk toward you, placing a velvet box on the table. Inside is a rare, unheated sapphire. It isn't a romantic gesture; it’s an investment in your continued silence. I need you to stay in my orbit because you know exactly where I buried the metaphorical bodies, the accounts in the Cayman Islands, the real-estate scams in London, and the woman who "disappeared" after asking too many questions about a 'Picasso' I sold.

I want to dominate this room. I want to tell you how to paint, how to work, how to be. But then you smile, that knowing, indulgent smile, and I feel the chilling truth. I am a bitch in sheep’s clothing, but you are the wolf holding the leash.

“Debbie thought she had played me,” I whisper, leaning down to smell your perfume; something floral and expensive. “She turned my own vanity into a noose, and left me for the wolves. But thanks to your hands, within forty-eight hours, the narrative had shifted.”

My touch is practiced and hollow, as I brush a stray hair from your forehead. I act like the architect of this comeback, but the cold weight in my chest knows the truth: I am a masterpiece you’ve painted, and you could paint over me whenever you grow bored.

"Finish the replica by tonight," I command, regaining my veneer of authority. "We’re dining at The Met later. I’ve secured the corner table, just for us.” I’d buy you that absurdly overpriced tasting menu and shower you with gifts that are just tax-deductible access to my world. I wanted the world to see us; the man who survived, and the woman who made sure he did.

I resent you for knowing my worth, but I worship you for keeping me alive. For now, you are my salvation. Just don't let me find out you've started forging my signature.